It was July. A hot summer day in which one was carefully about how quickly they adjusted the radio. So as to not get burned. It was also a day I worked from a fairly questionable McDonald’s. I was new to town and branching out with the locals seemed like the neighborly thing to do. Even if it meant drinking day-old iced tea and listening to the manager talk about her manicures a little too loudly. My judgments aside, however, it’s a work session that turned out pretty well. The Internet did its job by connecting me to websites, deadlines were met, and all-in-all, my to-do list got checked through. Success any way you look at it.

Then I walked outside. And saw someone had spit chewed gum on my car. Orange. Which is probably some fruity computer-made flavor (I didn’t smell it to find out). Like any normal would do, I reached in my purse-sized Kleenex holder and grabbed a tissue to wipe it off. Only with the heat of the day, it mushed and liquefied into an even bigger blob. And then I never touched the gum again.

First, I forgot about it. It’s on the driver’s side hood, so of course I saw it. But I didn’t have my tissue holder. Then it was still scorching hot, if touched the gum it would smear. Then I kind of started liking it. I drive a generic model in a everyone-has-this-shade silver; I’d wandered many a parking lot only to be thwarted by my vehicle’s many twins, and the gum made mine visible. That smushed orange blob could be spotted from rows away – and that’s coming from someone who once failed a driver’s sight test, with contacts.

So I left it.

My husband became annoyed with the gum, only he wouldn’t remove it on principle. It’s my vehicle, not his, and then he forgot about it too. (Or decided to never speak of it again.)

Now roughly five months later, the gum still sits, now frozen in place, Though much of it has been cleared out by Mother Nature and Father Time, the remnants still remain. And in case you are wondering, it’s done nothing to the paint. Gum might take seven years to digest, but only five months to remove a quarter of itself from a vehicle. Which is either a statement about what car exteriors go through on a daily basis, or proof that acid rain is more effective than acid of the stomach. (Science experiment anyone?)

Either way, I’m leaving it until it’s gone. Until that sad day when my car will once again disguise itself with the masses, and I can only hope a kind stranger will see it an appropriate place to spit their gum. Florescent colors only, please, you mid-labeled hooligan, and thanks in advance. Your public service is appreciated.